


Words Left Unsaid

by theblindtorpedo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Excessively Indulgent Descriptions of Jon, M/M, Peter as Outside POV, Pining, The Lonely Feeds, The Lonely ruins Peter Lukas' life once again, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: Peter falls in love with a stranger.
Relationships: Peter Lukas/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	Words Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [absolutelybonkered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/absolutelybonkered/gifts).



The first time, Peter picks the Man out immediately among the scrabbling and yells, the heavy thump of work boots and the large insulated jackets covering muscled frames. The other workers notice him as well, although they are involved enough in their occupation to purposefully ignore the anomaly. The Man is in his later twenties, clothes leaning on the upper side of business casual, but Peter has been raised well enough to know that the style is not indicative of the quality. The Man is dressed cheaply and in unassuming colors and in any other setting would disappear into the crowd, disintegrate in his mediocrity, but this is not the case. Peter, being no slave to constraints of duty, has ample time to examine the way the intruder carries himself with purpose, a tape recorder tucked under one arm. The man’s hair is clean cut and keen eyes observe from behind glasses. Peter likens him to a lighthouse, emitting a light as enticing as it is threatening.  
  
The Man is interviewing a sailor. His victim quivers with obvious tremors of apprehension, but his mouth keeps moving, spills with fat and unwieldly words that do not register on Peter’s consciousness for he can only focus on the expression on the Man’s face: nuanced elation that reddens his cheeks and causes his eyebrow to curve upwards. When the Sailor is done, the Man clicks the tape recorder with a sigh, a relieved and sated sound. Peter wonders what other sighs the Man can make.  
  
The second time, the Man is there again. This time he sits on a crate with a book in hand, scribbling in short spurts before fixing a contemplative gaze on the multitudes of bodies that shift back and forth in waves wilder than the sea. Peter watches the hands this time, nails bit to the quick topping spindly fingers. Peter imagines that palm stretched out across his own and perhaps the Man would look at him with wonderment, with excitement, with admiration at the body Peter had been blessed with. Peter has never wanted anyone to touch him before. Then the man turns towards his direction and Peter, an animal of instinct, vanishes into the Lonely at the beam of focus. Still, it takes all his power not to drag the Man through with him.  
  
The third time, Peter dares closer proximity. He holds tight to the Lonely, prepared to retreat at a moment’s notice, but the risk is worthwhile. Up close, he can see the subtle sheen of grey hairs at the man’s temples and the beginnings of frown lines on his brow. Peter would so like to touch them, smooth his thumb and perhaps the man would lean into it, be grateful for Peter’s attentions. This close he can notice the light fuzz of facial hair and the way one side of his mouth is turned up slightly even as the man holds a neutral expression.  
  
Peter thinks the Man is beautiful.  
  
Peter wonders if the Man has ever been told he is beautiful.  
  
Peter wants to be the first one to tell the Man he is beautiful.  
  
The fourth time, Peter immediately feels the man’s absence. He is accustomed to the constant pressing Loneliness of the seafaring life and he has a tender familiarity with the Loneliness of land crowds, like a child loves an Aunt or Uncle that comes around only on holidays. The docks without the Man are a holiday without sparkle, without cheer, haunted hollowest of Seasons Greetings. The Loneliness is not a comfort now it is a reminder that there could have been something else wonderful.  
  
It is delicious, in its own way, Peter cannot deny the pangs of longing that scorch his insides. He feels alive, nerves pulsing with a desperation that invigorates old bones. Perhaps this was a gift from his patron. A lesson in Loneliness, to bring him even more into the fold, to re-establish his faith after decades of lackluster compliance. The Lonely would not be underestimated and it would not allow a lax acolyte to interfere with its plans. If his entity was capable of speech, of comprehension, he would scream his understanding into the Fog, but instead he sits in his misery and hopes his Patron can recognize his acceptance. The Lonely wants and he is the sacrifice.  
  
The fifth time, he sees the Man smile for the first time. The dock in the rain drip with sorrow, but the man is crouched in the pools of water, oblivious to the discomfort as he hopefully extends a hand towards a pile of rope. Peter’s world already tilts on its axis when he spots him he is just as beautiful as his feeble fantasies had conjured for so many nights. Peter wants to wipe at the shimmering water that accentuates the curves and divots of the Man’s slender neck. The Man is an undeniable bedraggled wreck, but Peter is mesmerized for one simple reason.  
  
The man’s smile is subtle, but perfect and real and disarming like the smallest ray of sunshine emerging from behind a thundercloud. The erratic pattering of Peter’s heart is vindicated as he spots another living creature that cannot resist the Man’s charms. The cat emerges from the ropes, approaches the Man’s outstretched arm with docile air such that the Man can confidently scoop it up in his arms. The Man strokes the cat’s fur and lips move with words of reassurance? Praise? Tenderness? Peter cannot hear anything above the din of the rain.  
  
Peter has never felt jealousy before, but now it claws its way across his psyche, leaving welts that sting for weeks. The Lonely dances higher and he has to feed three of his crew to his Patron to absolve himself of the treacherous desire to run back, to find the Man and claim him.  
  
In another world, perhaps he would not be a coward.  
  
The sixth time, the universe grants Peter an opportunity. The wind is high and the Man clutches his arms around him, concentrated on struggling to take steps such that he is not prepared when the air snatches his scarf away from him and spirits the garment far out of his sight.  
  
Just Peter’s luck, it lands at his feet, an offering. Peter watches the Man dart about frantically, enjoying the show, before he decides to approach. Peter only tries his luck when he believes he has the upper hand.  
  
“Can I help you?” Peter asks.  
  
“Yes, have you seen my scarf? I just had it and it flew away.”  
  
“Any identifying features?”  
  
“My name was sewn into the edge.”  
  
“Your name?”  
  
“Jonathan Sims. But I go by Jon. Look have you seen it or not?”  
  
Peter clutches the scarf behind his back. He thinks of how Jon’s face will light up if he hands it over, a special smile, one meant only for him. He also thinks of how Jon will leave, like all things do, and then he will be left with nothing.  
  
“I haven’t seen it, sorry.”  
  
Jon runs a frustrated hand through his hair. Even through the sea stench Peter catches the scent of Jon’s body. The smell that would be on the fabric he holds hostage. He will not conqueror Jon today, he does not have the resources, the mental reserves, but he will settle for second best.  
  
Next time, he assures himself. Next time he will confess to Jonathan Sims.  
  
The seventh time, Jon is gone. Peter does not ask after him; has no idea who he would even question. All he knows is a name and an enchanting face. He circles the docks like a starving pup, but there is no flash of grey hair, low rumbling voice. Not a trace.  
  
The eighth time, it has been a year since Peter has seen Jon. He stands on the deck, a higher vantage-point for his quest. Jon was not a dockworker or sailor. It is folly to expect him to be an anchor here. Jon is probably up off enjoying himself. What does Jon do? What makes Jon happy other than stray cats? What does Jon like other than too soft scarves?  
  
He didn’t know Jon at all. Not really. Peter knows then, that despite the longing in his chest, he never will.  
  
Peter wishes he had told Jon he was beautiful.  
  
The ninth time, Peter does not search for Jon. He does not bother to disembark the Tundra. Instead he lies prone on his cabin bed, clutches the scarf long devoid of Jon’s iconic scent to his nose, scavenging the already destitute pantry of memory. He dreams of delicate fingers and the whirring sound of a tape recorder. The Lonely flares around him: the hands of an overzealous matron douse the fire he had kindled in the hearth. Peter is entrapped in the certainty that The Lonely is the only lover he will ever have. The only lover he deserves.

**Author's Note:**

> My first PeterJon fic! I was not super into this ship to begin with but the good pals on Discord talked me into it and guess what! It hurts! 
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic (and want to see more), please leave comments and kudos. They're what keep me going. Thank you!
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](www.theblindtorpedo.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](www.twitter.com/nickyfolcart).


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